


Me convenció tu sonrisa

by mavnificent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:59:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mavnificent/pseuds/mavnificent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Boyd and Erica run, they run far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me convenció tu sonrisa

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually based off of a trope meme on tumblr, and the trope was road trip. It ended up being end of season 2 compliant...ish, and ignores some of the headcanon I established for myself concerning these characters. As well as some politics. Um. Whoops? Suspend your disbelief.

Even leaving the Beacon Hills' sign in the wake of their exhaust isn't enough to make Erica relax. For the first stretch of road she sits with her knees drawn to her chest, and Boyd doesn't think he remembers seeing her look this way since before the bite, and even then she only did it when she thought no one was looking. There's something intimate in the display, and this is how he knows she trusts him, and there's this sudden need tight in the center of his chest to just _protect_ her at all costs, though he knows she can take care of herself. He doesn't know what to tell her, how to reassure her they'll be fine, that  _we're safe now,_ because they've only got so much money between them and only a week's worth of clothes in the backseat they're probably going to sleep in, one half-charged phone since he lost his in the woods, and no pack. But it's enough. It's enough to keep his foot steady on the gas, even though he has no idea where the hell they're going, or how long it'll take to get there. Turning back now is not an option.

When they cross the California state line, Erica finally relaxes, cracks a smile at him that makes the bottoms of her eyes crease and the bottom of his stomach swoop. Boyd's grip on the wheel loosens.

“You look like crap,” he says quietly, eyes on the road. She punches him in the shoulder with a pulled fist and he cuts his gaze to her quickly. “Cool it, Shakira, I'm driving.”

She rolls those big eyes of hers and scoots across the open, burn-pocked bench. “Whatever, _Vernon_.”

Her voice is rough, cracks a little. He passes her a bottle of water; it'll probably taste stale. She doesn't complain as she takes a noisy draw.

“Where are we going anyway?” she asks after she turns the radio on low, and all they get is a ball of static. It doesn't stop her from twisting the knob like she's an expert in finding stations in shitty, old cars.

“Dunno yet,” Boyd hums. “Wanna see if we can get to Boston?”

“Only if we stop in Las Vegas first,” Erica says with a tiny smirk. She lays her head on his shoulder.

“No,” he says. “I watch CSI. I know what happens in Vegas.”

“Stays in Vegas.” Boyd feels her fingers twist in the edge of his shirt. He wonders if she knows she's doing it. Wonders if it makes her feel safer the way it makes him feel more whole.

“Right. Not a place I want to stay, dead or alive.” She snorts. He feels the corner of his mouth turn up.

“Fine, Buzz Killington. But you have to promise to stop in Colorado.” Erica pushes herself up to look him in the face, and Boyd can feel her breath skate across his cheek, she's so close.

“Why Colorado?” When he peers at her from the corner of his eye, she's not looking at him anymore, is pushing away to shove a CD she's found on the floor of his car into the player.

“'Cause pot's legal, and I kinda think we deserve a couple of days of relaxation,” she deadpans, and it surprises Boyd so suddenly that his laughter is uninhibited, is loud, is howling. Erica stares at him, wide-eyes and wide-grin, giggles shaking her shoulders and all those gold-gold curls.

It'll be the same look she gives him after she begs him to teach her to drive sometime in Utah, after she'll nearly crash them going 25 MPH in a Lucky Inn parking lot because a crow will choose that moment to play suicide. It's the look she'll give him when they cross into Colorado and she decides to shove the sunroof open to throw her arms through it as they fly over rolling plains, and she'll whoop like she's some 80s teen flick starlet. The same one she'll give him when that same sunroof gets stuck and they have to cover the top with tarp they find buried underneath his spare tire. The same smile he'll inevitably, impulsively press his mouth to when they finally make it to Boston, and he'll kiss teeth, and her lips will cover his, and she will laugh into his mouth, and he into hers, and it will be awkward and wonderful and he will feel so fucking whole for the first time since he'd promised himself to a broken pack.

“Okay,” he manages when he's choked his laughter down in the here, in the now, before poolhalls with strangers and bowling with the elderly and Dinotopia. Erica's smile is small and happy and exhausted, and she scoots close again, pillows her head on the curve of his shoulder. This time he presses his cheek to the top of her head. "Okay, I promise."


End file.
